the abstract vs. the representational

This afternoon we're gonna party like it's 1999.  I wrote the following as an exercise for an undergraduate creative-writing class.  It's more or less self explanatory.*

He said:

     The abstract pains me.  That my physical makeup could be so similar to something so violently other keeps me up at night, it really does.  She has a meaninglessness to her that—I hate myself for this, but I envy the abstract.  Her edges are blurred.  I don't mean visually, because let's face it: the visual is for the Observer, and I care as little as the abstract does about battles and bowls and breasts.  I, after all, am not my subject matter, for I am of reality—and it's just that about the abstract that makes me want to hurl myself off of walls or even straight off the canvas or—hell, right out of the conceptual and into the void—: she's of nothing.  But that's not true either, and maybe it's my ultimate failure to understand her that makes me feel such hybrid scornlust for her.  Her edges are blurred, I said before.  She's diffused across existence, far beyond the periphery of my perception, and I can't see her all at once—she's scattered to the fourscore corners of possibility, and she really just looks like a mess (not visually, though some say that too)—but here's the thing: inside she's whole, she's secure, she's—and I'm the opposite, just the opposite, because my skin is firm and in no need of moisturizing lotion, sans cracks, sans sores, sans blemishes—from without, I am a stronghold; within, I am jelly.  Do you see, now, why I loathe her and love her all at once? why she is my life and my undoing? why I cannot look away from her eyes, her eyelessness? her beautiful, soulspliting, worldfading, endbeing endlessness?

She said:

     f f f f f f f f

     foff

     falafel

* ...than what?